


ah! pysche

by forpeaches (bluecarrot)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Human Sacrifice, Inspired by Eros and Psyche (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), No actual death occurs, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, astonishingly out of character, i wrote this instead of working, the author uses an excess of em-dash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:14:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25223734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/forpeaches
Summary: It was forbidden to speak to a sacrifice; once a girl was marked for the gods, she was no longer part of the realm of men.So her father wept, and he protested, but not to Brienne ...
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 43
Kudos: 157





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> -written 12 July 2020.
> 
> -directly and 100% due to this fanart [ here ](https://knifeears.tumblr.com/post/623233059054059520/without-faith-there-can-be-no-love)  
> https://knifeears.tumblr.com/post/623233059054059520/without-faith-there-can-be-no-love
> 
> \- re "priests" -- i'm sure the ancient greeks had a particular name for this position in the community, and i duly apologize to any scholars of the ancients who are even now gasping in shock at my temerity. i went on to wikipeda to find some names and information, and then i got tangled up in trying to understand peplos, and then i was reading about table manners in the Odyssey, and then i stopped reading about that stuff because i had a fic to write.
> 
> -a peplos is like a loose gown, soft and comfortable and hella flattering, and i'm still not entirely sure how it works (something about fibulae at the shoulders, yeah?) but isn't it a beautiful word
> 
> -ancient humans spun linen so fine, you would weep to see it. technological progress is not a straight line, and information is lost and regained throughout the centuries.

Her father was the only one who wept.

“This is not right,” he said, “this is my only child, this is not just, this is not right”

\-- but his words were not for Brienne. Once a girl was marked for the gods she was no longer part of the world of men. They could not speak to her or make a gesture or reach out; they could do nothing but look. And most of them were glad enough not to do that. Their glances slid off her face as they’d always done, shy and sly. Brienne the Beauty was now the property of the gods, and wasn't that a joke, don't you see it? Give the big ugly beast to the gods. Let them deal with her.

She knew well enough what her neighbors thought of her; she had heard what they said. She heard it now, even when they didn't speak. _Over-tall_ , they said with their eyes, and _over-muscled_. More like a man than like a proper girl. And worse than that -- so much worse than being only big and ugly and strong -- worst of all was her character. Always wanting and doing and seeing what she should not be and want and do and say.

Those choices were all gone now.

She stared at the ground in front of her and wondered what was going to happen. _You'll go to the gods_ the priests said, and that was all very well and good for them to say, but what would actually _happen?_ What was it going to feel like? Would it hurt -- much?

Brienne thought that probably it would.

They had given her something to drink that morning, sweet and dark and full of strong herbs that made her mouth tingle and her mind swirl. Was that why the girls were so willing to die?

She did not know what expression she wore but it was not one of a girl seeing her father and her people and her home for the last time — it was not of grief. She did not feel grief — nor fear — only soft grey waiting.

They walked out of sight of the people and up past the foothill, where they would only be small figures to anyone still watching, and there, the priests bound her hands in front of her body.

She was afraid, then. But they stayed walking close near her, guiding her halfway up the long mountain where the gods lived, moving in a silence that felt studied and deep. Weapons were forbidden in the garden but she saw knives shining at their waists.

So some of the girls _had_ fought back, here at the end of all things.

Brienne wanted to say that she didn’t need to be convinced, that would have done it for honor’s sake alone and to quell her own curiosity, second -- but she was forbidden to speak and anyway, she found at the moment — as she always found it — that she had nothing to say to these sort of people.

One of them cut her bonds: and then she was alone.

There was nothing to do but to go forward.

She went forward.

The fog descended around her shoulders as she climbed. It clung to her skin and hair, damply cold, and so thick that when she looked back she saw nothing of what she had left, no priest and no city behind her, no trace of home at all -- only soft, dancing fog.

Forward, Brienne.

The drugs were clearing from her mind now; it was easier to see where to place her hands and feet and how to move. Forward, and upward. How high did this mountain go? Just this morning she'd looked up and seen the peak, flat at the top, and no gods at all to her eyes. She should have been able to climb it in a morning, -- she'd climbed higher, faster -- and yet she had been hours and hours at it, and still there was only the fog below her and the mountain above. Her arms were fatigued and her fingers sore and her belly ached with hunger and she didn't have any idea when or how it would end.

Maybe she should end it herself, maybe she should let go --

No. She shook her head, to clear it. Every road had an ending and this one would too, no matter if it were a vertical one. She had only to follow it.

So she rested a moment and reached for the next hand-hold and slipped, falling out into nothing.

Not rocks but feathers caught her fall. A bed of feathers, impossibly deep.

Sitting up made her vision spin and her mouth dry with wonder. This place was the most beautiful she had ever seen or heard of, rivaling stories of princes and palaces. The walls were high and hung in tapestry, bright and new; when she stood, she found that the stone under her feet had been fitted together without a seam. She looked at herself and found she was clean and fresh and cool, no longer slick with sweat and smelling ripely of the open air; her peplos draped around her body like the fabric was water. What human hands could spin that fine?

Perhaps she really had gone to the house of the gods.

If that were true, she was alone in it. She traveled the hallways and saw no one, neither gods nor men, and no one came to answer her voice calling out.

\-- But she was not alone.

When she felt the first stirrings of hunger, something — perhaps it was a a wind — tugged at her linen, and she turned to see an array of good, simple food — the sort she liked — spread out on a low table, with nearby cushions suitable for chairs.

Brienne hesitated: but it was clearly meant for her. “Thank you,” she said. She drank to her hosts, and the wine was sweet and sharp on her tongue. 

A great tiredness came over her after she had ate and drank, and for a moment she was afraid, thinking it was another trick like the priests had done: but no, she thought. It was simple human tiredness. It had been such a long day.

The little tugging wind lead her to a bed and, grateful, Brienne closed her eyes and slept.

Someone -- something -- woke her that evening, when the sky was scattered with stars. She sat, drawing the covers around her body, and strained her eyes into the darkness. "Someone is here," she said. "Speak to me, ser."

"Are you willing?" said the voice.

"To be spoken to?" She remembered the wine, the food, the nudging wind. "Are you the ruler of the house? I mean no disrespect by coming here -- I do not know how I did it, in truth." The cliff under her hands; her cheek pressed against rock. Drink this, said the priest, and then they lead her to a mountain to die ...

"It is not my house, but I am one who welcomes you to it. Are you afraid?"

"I am not afraid of men," she said.

The voice laughed, soft and kind.

So it _was_ a god who spoke to her.

"Let me see you," she said. She could not even tell from what direction his voice came; it seemed to be everwhere and nowhere, coming to her mind as much as in her ears.

"You may not see me."

"Then how can I know who speaks?"

He said: "You may have me as your husband — if you would have me."

A flush flared in her cheeks. If it was anger or emabrrassment, she could not say. "Light a lamp, and you will no longer want me to wife."

"There will be no lamps," he said. "No looking-glasses and still ponds. No one will come to bother you, if you do not want them. And at night, I will be here."

She stammered. "I -- what do I say? What am I to ask, what am I permitted to reply?"

"You may ask what you like to ask; I will tell you what I want to say ... This is the house of my family. You have come up from the mountain to see us."

That was true enough, but she had not truly believed she was doing it. She spoke slowly, thinking. "I was sent here to be ..." Given to the gods. Eaten by them. Consumed.

She had not considered that this might be the consumption the gods had in mind.

There was a movement on the bed, as if someone had sat down nearby.

Brienne drew up her legs, shifting away from him. "How can I trust you?"

"You will trust me -- or not."

She looked at where his voice might be from, saw nothing, and shut her eyes. "What would become of me if I ... do I return to my old life?" The faces who hated her face; the voices who hated her speech.

"I do not know."

"And if I stay?"

In reply, he kissed her.

In reply, she raised her hand to touch him.

\-- No demon, this; nothing with long fangs and rough fur. His nose and eyes and ears seemed human. She trailed her fingers over his shoulders and down his chest -- oh, wonderfully and fearfully made, warm and firm and smooth -- and when she traveled low enough to find hair coarse and curled, she jerked back her hand.

He was laughing again.

She was accustomed to being laughed at, -- she thought she knew about how it felt -- but this was different. This did not feel unkind. She was not the joke here; she was inside it and looking out.

Such a simple thing should not have changed anything, perhaps: but it made the decision for her.

"Husband," she said, "I will stay."

Even later on, when she knew what to expect, loving him was a wonder. But after the first time she wept, with someone that was not pain and not joy but caught the fine edge of both things. He held her in the darkness, saying nothing, only stroking her hair and back a little until she calmed. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

It took a long time to find a response. “For being human,” she said.

“There’s no shame in that,” he said. “That is something my sister ...” He trailed off.

“What?”

“My sister says that gods and humans move in separate spheres, that it was made that way at the beginning.”

Strange, but she felt no fear of him now, no resistance from asking — “Don’t you know?”

“We all have limits, wife.”

She leaned up on her forearm and wished she could see his face — it must be beautiful — but the night was moonless and deep, and the stars rested mute in their velvet spheres. “My name is Brienne,” she said.

His arm went around her waist. “Jaime,” he said. “My name is Jaime.”

When he moved above her again she thought she heard the stars themselves sing aloud.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a quiet interlude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 20 june 2020.

Brienne woke alone.

It might have been a dream — except that she was surely in the house of a god - and the place between her legs felt strange and sore.

She wanted to clean herself, but there was no need for her to clean; she wanted to eat, and she was not hungry -- but at the half-thought of desire, she found a a steaming bath had appeared just out of sight, with a snowy stack of towels to the side of it, and a cake of hard, perfumed soap.

No doubt the food would make itself known next.

So she bathed slowly and dressed more slowly, and when she was finished, she found her way outside.

It was not as it had been -- a bare rock in the clouds. This was a long spreading lawn, lush and green, with every sort of flower she knew blooming at once, with no regard for their proper seasons, and many among them she had never seen before. She walked a long time without wearying, and still saw nothing of the edge of the mountain, nor a line down into the valley below, where humans lived, where her father lived, where she should ...

I am here by right, she told herself. I am the wife of a god, I am wed to Jaime ...

_And which god is that?_

The words were clear enough as if they'd been spoken. Brienne turned her head and no one was there.

Of course not.

But _someone_ was there; she felt the presence like she felt the little wind that brought her meals and clothes and guided her to the house when she lost her way wandering. It was a sense of another presence, and whether human or divine, gracious or unhappy, she could not say.

When her husband came to her that night, he kissed her: then he drew back. "Something is wrong?"

"No."

"You are worried. Do I displease you? Are you in pain?"

"No."

"You would tell me --?" Unsure.

She tugged his body down to hers.

  
It was sweeter than before, even in the darkness. Again she rode the familiar edge of pain, and this time he reached between them to where they were joined, bringing her hand with his, to show her something new; she bit the meat of his shoulder and Jaime gasped into her ear, his other arm around her to bring them closer, closer, bring them more.

"You are thinking still," he said afterwards; he was clearly half-asleep.

"No."

"Brienne."

When he spoke her name she felt whole and new and seen and known. She said, "This is a strange place."

"It would seem so, to a human."

"Is it real? Am I dreaming?"

"No," he said. "Not a dream, and not truth -- but in a sense, this house is more real than all of your world together."

Already it was becoming hard to remember what life had been before him and before this. "Hunger," she said, "and cold. Suffering and hatred. Those things are real, but you do not have them here."

He took awhile to reply. "There are things you are protected from."

"So they do exist, even for the gods."

"Not in a way that you can experience them."

"Because I'm mortal?"

"Because you are my wife," he said. "I do not want you to suffer."

"Suffering is part of being alive."

"You have a narrow idea of life."

"Do gods suffer?" she said.

Again he was quiet. "Not as humans do," he said at last. "Anger, yes. Shame and guilt and lust. Desire and satiety. But it is a different sort of wanting, I think, and a different fulfillment. And we do not have the fear of death."

"I am not afraid to die."

He smiled -- she felt it against her cheek. "No," he said. "You would not be."

She stared into nothing. "Will I ever see my father again?" she said: but Jaime had long since gone to sleep, his chest rising and falling with a pattern that was already familiar.

  
When she woke, he was gone.

So it was the next night, and the next and the next and the next; no matter how she resolved to stay awake she could not, and no matter how she asked to see him, he refused.

It was the only thing he did refuse her, and perhaps for that reason it swelled up and festered, til it took on more importance than all the things he gave to her.

Brienne was selfish, she knew -- selfish and wicked and heartless. Had any mortal more reason to be grateful than she? Had any woman ever had more certainty that she was loved -- not for her looks as most women were loved, nor despite them either. She had asked for Jaime and he had replied, and that was enough for them. _I am protecting you_ he told her, and she wondered if the darkness was part of that. He had a human form to her hands, but who knew what he was really?

And he had not looked at her either.

  
The voice she'd heard that first day in the garden did not speak again, nor did Brienne often journey out to seek it, but here and there she felt again the feeling of being watched.

  
"Who is your sister?" she said.

He did not need to rest in the way that Brienne needed it, but he seemed to enjoy the laying-together-afterwards as much as he enjoyed their intimacy; and now he was not quick to answer.

He was often so when he was trying to hide something from her. Direct questions about the house he answered directly, but anything else -- about her old world, about himself or his family -- took him some time. But he did speak at last. "A goddess."

"What is her purview?"

"I cannot tell you that."

"Is she so monstrous?"

He laughed aloud. "She is beautiful. Exquisite."

That did not substantially narrow down the range of candidates. "Does she live here?"

"She has a house of her own."

"When will I meet her?"

"You are not permitted to do so," he said, as gently as anyone could say it.

She shifted away from him. "I cannot live here forever and never meet another human."

"She is not --"

"You know what I mean."

Again Brienne wished she could see his face. He did not move and he did not speak, and she would not be the first to break the silence stretched out between them. Was there grief in his expression, or was it rage? Regret at taking her to wife? Pride, or love, or contemplation?

"You are stubborn," he said at last.

Yes.

He said: "Give me time. Let me find a way to do this thing."

"Am I going to be patient for very long?"

"A little while," and "Now, wife" -- rolling her on her back again, nudging his knee between her legs, making her breath catch and her heart quicken -- "We have other things to do than to discuss than my sister."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story is a bit out of hand -- i intended it to be much smaller but they keep _acting up_.


	3. Chapter 3

She found that she did trust Jaime, whatever the niggling voice of doubt whispered. He had every chance to be unkind -- didn't he? And he was not.

 _Which god are you married to?_ the little voice had said, gently mocking her ignorance.

I trust him, she said to herself, moving in the garden. The flowers here were so beautiful, their hue and scent beyond any she'd known on earth. They lingered in full bloom, far longer than they had a right to do, and then died all in a moment; but they were replaced just as quickly. And the days went on and on, and the clouds seldom gathered to block out the sun, and the wind blew exactly when she needed it; and was the summer never to end?

 _He doesn't tell you who he is,_ said the leaves.

"I do not need to know that," said Brienne.

 _You think that is true because he told you so,_ said the grass.

Yes.

_And you believe him?_

Yes.

_You should find out for certain. I could help you._

"I do not need your help."

The light was so clear here and the day so still. What is there to hurt me here?

 _Nothing will hurt you,_ Jaime had said. _You are protected. You are my wife._

 _Let me help,_ said the voice that seemed to come from the clouds and was not the clouds. _I am your friend._

Brienne bent to smell a rose, cupping it in her hand, and drew back: the thorn had scratched her, drawing a sharp bead of blood. It shone a little, reflecting an arc of sunlight along its perfect curve.

_I will give you a gift. I will give you a choice._

Brienne had forgotten what pain felt like. She wiped the blood on her peplos and went on walking in the garden. 

  
Of course she was alone when the sunlight woke her, streaking across the bed so brightly it might have been laughing. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and turned and --

There on the pillow beside her was a long dagger, with a blade like sharpened moonlight.

She tilted it to see the words engraved along the rippling edge. _I keep my promises,_ it said.

She would not use the knife.

She did not need to use it. She trusted Jaime, she trusted herself -- her own sense of what was true. She had been sent here by her own people, bound and left to die alone on a mountain, and she had climbed instead of falling, she'd lived instead of dying, and she took Jaime into her arms and between her legs when there was no reason at all to do it except the quiet, certain place below her ribs that said _Yes Yes He is the one Yes_

\-- so she said to herself without speaking the words, not trusting who might hear her, invisible and unseen among the marble halls, the knotted tapestries, the world set up to protect her.

 _He_ was the one she chose. Man or beast or some combination, she loved him and she would not hurt him, no matter what he looked like.

But did that mean she was not allowed to know?

The day swelled and drew close; the light passed away and the stars came out, trembling, one by one.

Brienne put the knife beneath her pillow and filled a lamp with oil. She would not _hurt_ him --

Jaime's step outside. "Wife?"

\-- no matter how he looked.

"Husband," she said. "I am here."

  
He moved inside her again and again she cried out, pulling him closer. "I love you," she said, trembling with it. "Do you know that?"

He kissed her. He knew.

  
"Sleep," he said to her, and slept.

Brienne lay in the dark and waited for his breath to spread out, steady and even and slow. Inhale -- hold -- release.

Now.

She moved her legs out of the sheets and stood up and lit the lamp and picked up the dagger, to move it away. She raised up the lamp -- the flame did not give much light -- she brought it closer to him, so the little circle spread over his skin, his hair, his face.

He had not lied to her, she saw that now. He was the god of love and beauty -- or at least the god of love -- the god of falling, of wounds, of being captured and lost.

Eros himself lay naked in her bed and she could not stop staring at him.

But she stood too long. The flame danced; the oil dropped; he woke and stared into her face, and his silent fury shook the walls.

"Wife," he said.

"Husband," she said: and now at last, too late, she remembered the taste of fear.

"What did I ask of you? What did I ever ask?"

"I had to see," she pleaded. "I had to know that much."

"Are you disappointed?"

She shook her head -- how could he think so? "Are you -- now that you see me?"

"I never needed the light," he said. "Did you really think I would?"

"I am sorry --"

"You will be."

"I never meant to wake you!"

"It would be better," said Jaime, "if you had." But now he was gazing at the knife, and his face was not soft. "Was that the second part of your decision?"

 _It never was,_ she tried to say, but her voice was gone; she dropped the lamp and the dagger and covered her mouth, scratching at herself, trying to find the words. _I did not bring it to harm you,_ she tried to say _. Believe me._

The light went out or else she was blinded now too; the world was cold and full of a swirling wind.

It is not my knife, I would not do that --

"Quiet," said her husband, and his voice was soft. "I know who brought you the dagger."

 _Where are you?_ she said. _I cannot find you here in the dark --_

"Then you may have light," he said.

And Brienne found herself alone at the foot of the sacred mountain.

She looked up and saw the peak, no longer hidden in clouds; she looked down at herself and saw a peplos spun so fine, it draped across her body like water.

There was only one choice left.

She started the long walk down to the village, weeping bitterly as she went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -the dagger is (of course) named Oathkeeper
> 
> -Cersei is (of course) Aphrodite, the often irrationally jealous goddess of love
> 
> -i'm not entirely comfortable casting Cersei in the role of villain, but it's easy and i am LAZY
> 
> -In the original story, Aphrodite is mother to Eros, and sent him on an errand to make beautiful Psyche fall in love with some monster. Eros was so distracted by this vision of loveliness that he scratched himself with his own arrow (the arrows of fate!!) and fell in love with the poor girl himself (much to Aphrodite's irritation).  
> Psyche was forbidden by Eros to look at her husband, and her family told her that any man who cannot visit her openly was undoubtedly a scoundrel (there is some justification for this point of view). They gave her dagger to murder him while he sleeps. She lit a lamp and was just, blown away by the fact that she married THE LITERAL GOD OF LOVE. While she stood there in horny awe, the lamp dripped oil on his naked limbs, waking him. He flew up (literally, because the boy has wings), scolded her, and dumped her back on Earth.  
> They were reunited after a series of tests given by Aphrodite to make sure Psyche is worthy of her son's love and/or goddess status, after which accomplishment they returned to Mt. Olympus where they lived happily ever after, and are surely there still to this day.
> 
> -their first child was named Pleasure. how great is that

**Author's Note:**

> Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche  
> how statue-like I see thee stand  
> the agate lamp within thy hand!  
> Ah! Psyche from the regions which  
> are Holy Land!
> 
> *
> 
> brienne @brienne: Humans are junk, might as well tap that prettyboy god


End file.
